Pawns in the Dark
by AnExiledFrank
Summary: Conversations between characters in the world of BelgariadMallorean. Love is untouchable to those that know they are not worthy to reach for it. An emperor who has lost his love and a smith who can not touch his, discuss many politics and a child's life.
1. Chapter 1

A Question Between Dark and Light

An Exiled Frank

Disclaimer: The characters, situation, and environment wherein are not my own. I am merely playing around with their emotions. They belong to David Eddings, etc. all. I promise to return, more or less, the same.

Author's note (because you need something to get this started with): I found Kal Zakath a fascinating character, cruel and ruthless but horribly sane. Then, one day, a little voice questioned what if Zakath and Belgarath actually talked to each other. I tried to tell my muse it wouldn't work. This what it got. The story takes place in The King of the Murgos on the same night as to when Zakath and Garion start talking. It is purposely meant to be strange. Two notes. First it is mentioned that those in 'Eastern' kingdoms (that is under Torak) sound different than those in the West. If that is true, than those in the West would sound different than those in the East (and it has absolutely nothing to do with the image of Sean Connory as Belgarath). Second, Zakath never has a fit over the fact that Belgarath is seven thousand years old, possibly because had this conversation over that same fact before.

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Only the harsh clicks of boot heels striking stone floor were the warning before the door was opened wide. Bright light from torches flared, near blinding the room's inhabitant. Harsh guttural sounds of command were aimed to the sprawled body, bleary-eyed from interrupted sleep. A retort flew back, rolling on a strange accent, sharp and piercing to the ear. A gruff reply. Stony silence commenced.

Tension boiled in the atmosphere as neither of those that spoke backed down, making a solid wall of dislike. Finally, the occupant, whose blue eye's still squinted in the bright light, sighed making his shine and twinkle disappear under weathered skin. With a winkled hand against his throbbing temple, a consequence of the night before, an inner debate could be seen upon his ancient face. Emotions that played so fast that one could not define them all, but irritation (at the hang over or the interruption of his sleep was uncertain) seemed to be the underlying mask. Only breathing (harsh, soft, and deep, from the soldiers, the occupant, and the commander in that order) interrupted the silence. Two different hands quivered on sword hilts. The commander started to loosen his own. He had orders to obey, force allowed. The blue eyes opened suddenly, abruptly, now staring unflinching in the light. A brief nod and a hasty plea for time to be decently dressed was asked.

The soldiers closed the door.

Minutes passed and the once peaceful sleeper came out, a stained white robe hastily wrapped around his lean frame. No words were exchanged; nods and stares were sufficient as the group walked down the hallway, two guards in front, one behind the robed man.

Another door opened, shut.

Now only two were in a room, one sitting, one standing. Four dimly lit braziers sat in the corners, with the only real light coming from a single candle at the desk in front of the sitting man. Polite phrases rolled from the dark-haired man on his throne-like chair, motioning for the other to sit, relax, perhaps a drink would be in order?

The guest, though prisoner perhaps would not be far off the mark, refused just as politely in his lilting voice, rubbing his head to excuse his disinclination to have more of what caused the pain in the first place. Besides he was planning on going back to bed soon. A flash of emotion, anger, annoyance and humor, before fading to deadness passed the sitting man's eyes. The blue eyes narrowed at the quick flashes, silver eyebrows twitching ever so slightly before his face smoothed out to placid blandness. The game had begun.

"I'm glad you decided to come."

"Your guards made it rather difficult to refuse to."

"Some how I find it doubtful that no matter how determined my guards could have gotten, they would have had little impact one whether you wanted to see me."

"True."

Silence. The players had drawn their positions.

Sudden attack from the new player, looking for a reaction, "I suppose you have a reason for wanting to talk to me in the middle of the night."

"Many reasons, not the least of which because I do my best work at midnight, though, to be honest I did not think you'd be asleep at this hour." Flash of white, a smile, possible point.

"How unsurprising," A brief murmur though what he was unsurprised at was unclear.

Dark eyebrows still clear of silver furrowed, eyes tightened, and winkles grew deeper but his voice remained calm. Lost point.

"I have been told you are seven thousand years old." Smoothly the dark-haired man used his own attack.

"Thereabouts, a couple of hundred either way. I was born a very long time ago and the calendar was a little vague back then." A touch of humor.

No return joke. Interrogation continued, game of attrition.

"You are a sorcerer." A statement, not a question at the moment.

"It is what I've been called, yes in any case."

"Your family has, what is considered, sorcery?" question underlying fact.

"Most have what I would call a gift that might be considered sorcery. My daughter most definitely," under the breath, "unfortunately for me," louder, "and my grandson."

"Belgarion you mean."

"Yes, my grandson with a indefinite amount of greats."

A nod of interest, a quick gleam in the dark eyes before continuing, candle light swaying to light up most of his face. Point kept. Move ahead and surround, he was wary of the sharp tongue the knew too much.

"Can you kill a man just by looking at him?" humorous subject change.

"Probably not, though I could make him wish he was." Unusual seriousness.

"Have you ever….?"

"Ever what?" feigned ignorance, blue eyes laughing merrily.

"Tortured a man by thought." Slight impatience, annoyance at the lack of respect for the game, for him. Point not yet finished.

A speculative glance, mental windows shutting behind his eyes, "Pol tends to do it better than I."

"You evaded the question."

"I did." Bald, flat, uncaring of consequences.

"Are you going to answer if I asked you again?" flatness in return.

"No," he added as an after thought, "you really don't need to know either."

"Many would be headless from such impudence."

"I am not most people."

Searching glance, interest and caution mixing with something close to uncertainty in the dark eyes before an almost reluctant reply. A reluctantly given penalty. "No, you are not most people."

A half-bow, lips tugged in a faintly self-mocking smile at the surveying dark eyes that almost matched the dark niches of the room.

"You are not what I had in mind." Sudden change in conversation, different strategy, the hardest yet.

Half-shrug, indifference or disinterest.

"I expected someone taller, bigger, muscular, liked the exaggerated tales of savage Alorn giants."

Their eyes met; blue meeting dark brown and black evenly. Something seemed to pass that he liked as the dark haired man leaned back.

"But, on the other hand, you are much more, I suppose, intelligent I would say, than I expected as well."

Mocking full bow, impish grin.

The dark-haired man grinned back but without any impishness or warmth.

"Yes, quite different than what I imagined." This time the smile lasted longer. "But then you must have had a different image of me."

"Not really." Unemotional.

Surprise from the desk, easily shown when he moved forward, his plain linen clothing rustling together, elbows on table. A different twist to the game.

"Should I be hurt?" Dry.

"I find people who wish to take over the world very much the same."

"You mean, all of them are very much like Kal Torak." Half-amused glitter in his eyes and tone.

Shrug.

"And his disciples, but mostly yes, Torak."

A twitch at the pronounced disappearance of the courteous title but no other reaction.

Shadows played across their faces from the flickering golden candlelight. Age seemed undetermined, for it was not clear who was older of the two by sight alone. Even their eyes did not betray their beings, only that one seemed merrier and sadder at the same time, while the other was cold, like cloudy pond water in winter time and just as opaque.

"I have never wished to be Kal Torak."

An undecipherable grunt. Blue eyes unfathomable yet still clear like clear blue sapphires.

"I do not know what to make of you." Frustration with slight anger glimmer sullenly in the eyes of coal.

"As you pointed out, I am a sorcerer and seven thousand years old, it would take a very observant man, indeed, to know everything about me."

Bitter laughter that ends just as quickly as it began.

"I don't believe it, you do know that."

"That's not my concern." Evenness.

"And what is your concern?" He pounced on the last word, eyes glittering with a stranger ferocity.

No reply.

For once the blue eyes do not meet the condemning dark ones. They are frowning at something in the distance that only he can see.

Point won in the obscure game of his that only he knew how to play, that dark haired man leaned back.

"As I figured. You may leave _Belgarath,_" snorted derision at the name.

Dismissal was in his tone and body. The second man did not move, ignoring or not noticing the signs for him to leave. Scratching his scruffy beard thoughtfully, the sorcerer pulled his eyes to easily meet the emperor's.

"My only concern, Zakath, is the world, only the world."

His robe rustling against his body was the only sound of him leaving the room, the closing silently behind him. Upon leaving the candle on the desk grew suddenly in luminescence, almost ethereal blue before abruptly blowing out leaving the room and it's ruler alone in the darkness.

End.


	2. Chapter 2

Change in a Dark Heart

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine nor would I want the responsibility that goes with them.

Author's Notes: Honestly I don't know what happened this time. All I wanted was a nice little dialogue between Zakath and Silk. Only I found that neither wanted to play nice. This set in Sorceress of Darshiva, a little bit after Zakath has joined the group, but before he loses his euphoria. It seemed strange to me that Zakath became suddenly wary and everyone became so chummy with him. Then I was going through it again and I was suddenly struck by how wild and downright cruel Zakath's threat was to Garion (that is to separated the gang and put a few on the rack), and well, here this is.

"Hypocrisy, the lie, is the true sister of evil, intolerance, and cruelty." Raisa Gorbachev

"In this world everything changes except good deeds and bad deeds; these follow you as the shadow follows the body."

Flip.

Smack.

Flip.

Smack.

Zakath frowned as Silk tossed the Mallorean coin in the air and caught it, the dazzling sunlight reflecting off the bright silver. By some accidental stroke, or just ill luck, his horse had fallen back during a mental lapse from their spot usual next to Garion, sidling next to the Drasnian's gray mare. It left Zakath without anyway to move upfront without appearing rude to move suddenly away from the sardonic-faced man.

It was not to say Zakath felt uncomfortable around the strange little Drasnian but he didn't exactly feel entirely _comfortable_ around him either. If he were to be honest to himself, as it seemed to happen more and more often as he traveled with this peculiar band of wanderers and warriors, the Drasnian made him quite uneasy. Maybe it was because he seemed so…unimpressed with the Emperor.

Flip.

Smack.

Inwardly he frowned at his inner thoughts, carefully looking through his past memories of the pointy-noised thief. He had heard about him as Prince Kheldar of Drasnia, nephew of King Rhodar, and fairly probable heir to the throne. It came as a surprise, in some ways, when a direct heir of Drasnia had been born. What was more surprising was that there had been no foul play to the young prince-ling that had finally graced the royal pair before King Rhodar had finally passed away. If he recalled, King Rhodar's wife had become regent with very few ripples from the Alorian kings. Such a strange race, even as he got to know them more and more. At the time, it seemed Kheldar had been unwise, or at least impolitic and lazy, to let such an easy way into power and fame pass him by. Of course that was before his men had realized Silk had been dabbling in business, specifically Mallorean businesses. Still, as a possible political ally, even before the heir's birth, Zakath's men had started to make note as the prince's reputation started to become wide spread. A few crumbs of his expertise as a thief, spy, and assassin even reaching Zakath's ears, though most could be brushed off as legends and horror stories. There had been nothing more striking, or more exaggerated, about his history than any usual Alorian noble, except for the brief episode when news had come to him that he traveled with Belgarath and Belgarion. But that had been such a minor detail in the large scheme of things, that he had merely noted it and felt little interest to follow why an average nobleman would be following to mythical demigods. It felt rather odd, looking back on his past thoughts, clouded by coldly calculating anger, guilt, and self-destruction. As he rode longer and longer with Garion, he was beginning to realize how empty those emotions were.

Flip.

Smack.

Then there was gap and a mere trickle of information came to Zakath from the West. Or, more bluntly speaking, another habit he seemed to be picking up and he was unsure if this one was as good even if it was within his own thoughts, there was plenty of information coming over from the West, he had just chosen to ignore it. Up until, of course, Belgarion had come waltzing into his kingdom after leaving Cthol Murgos actually intact and Urgit rallying his troops with a miraculous-grown backbone. It was then that he had started to pay attention to the information that Brador had collected over the years concerning the curious companions that followed Belgarion, the Godslayer.

No, he reversed his thinking, searching through his clouded memory, he had been concerned about the Godslayer and wanted to know if his companions could tell him more about Belgarion. In his convoluted logic, he had thought he would have been able to blackmail, or at least have the upper hand over the Godslayer. Any scrap of information that was considered useful, whether it was the expertise of weaponry or marriage life, Brador found it for him. It concerned him a little thinking on how callously he had viewed Belgarion's companions. Had he been that focused on revenge that he ignored all other information except to further his own twisted desire for revenge?

More possible than he felt comfortable with. He shifted uncomfortably on his horse.

Flip.

Smack.

Thoughts of revenge and suicide pervaded him during day, and dreams of innocent blood that stained his hands haunted his night. He hated Tar Urgas, with a hindsight he had sorely missed before riding with Garion, because he could focus all his hatred and guilt on someone else rather than on himself, and using that hatred to kill hundreds of innocent lives because he denied looking at his own soul. It took a somber youth and an implacable stone that hadn't been moved by his denial or justification to realize who he truly hated, who he tried to hide behind. It was no wonder Silk was not impressed with him, petty and mad tyrant that he had been, his whole life one specific goal. A goal that even he didn't acknowledge until a beautiful child questioned him, as he realized with a chill, and he discovered he truly did want to die.

Right now, however, he truly did _not_ want to die. In fact, he smiled a little, he was completely different from that man who slaughtered millions. Totally and absolutely changed. No longer was he obsessed with Murgos and death, but life and friends.

"Do you have a problem?"

Zakath jerked at the question. Silk looked at him narrowly, still flipping the coin in the air.

An uncountable twitch of annoyance went through Zakath aimed at the little coin. Which was illogical since it wasn't the coin's fault for flipping in the air, and practically gloating that it was free and he wasn't. But he was free, freer than he had been for a long time. It was an exhilarating feeling, actually, not to have people bend and prostrate around you, though he couldn't deny the attraction of all that attention, and not have to deal with all the petty problems that go with running such a large kingdom. Yes, perhaps, it was the coin that should be jealous of him. Not the other way around.

Or perhaps he was just irritated because he had been interrupted from his depressing musings. Never a good sign to compare himself to a coin, not even in this group.

"-Zakath, Polgara."

He pulled his thoughts away, realizing he had missed everything the little thief had said. Trying to be regal, which was spoiled by Silk's amused expression, Zakath said, "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I said, that if you were having a problem, that you should go to Polgara instead of glowering at me."

"I wasn't-," he clamped his lips down.

Silk raised his eyebrows, "Weren't glowering or weren't glowering at me?"

Zakath did not answer, finding no words to say. Not comfortable ones at least. He tried to resist squirming under probing eyes.

Flip.

Smack.

For a moment he thought Silk would let it go. Let it slide as one more peculiar quirk, an after-affect of his euphoria, his sudden happiness in life in general.

Flip.

Smack.

He underestimated Silk's tenacity.

Flip.

Smack.

Still flipping the damned coin, Silk said, "When I first heard about you, I thought you might have turned out to be decent person. For an Angarak I mean."

Zakath twitched, repressed a snide comment about certain Drasnians and their opinions, and kept a neutral expression on his face. He could hear Silk out. For now anyway.

"And then when you started butchering Murgos I was slightly disappointed. Of course, then I found out about your entanglement with the fairer sex, and it became more understandable."

"I wouldn't have thought you cared," he said icily, "except in this past year, Alorns and Angaraks haven't exactly cared about what happens to each other."

Silk grinned. An insufferable smile. He recognized it on bureaucrats that thought they had gotten the best of him. Which had amused him, because he had them killed after they had explained their plans to them. There was some grim satisfaction in hearing their screams echo through the halls. He couldn't exactly do that here though. And he really shouldn't either. Really. He was past killing people for pleasure, it was part of his old self. A self that no longer existed.

"I don't have any particular fondness for Murgos, but your passion was more than a little extreme. I mean its one thing to wipe out whole garrisons, but to put the entire town to sword _was_ overkill."

"Can you blame me?"

"Blame you? Never. Blame is a wasteful energy anyway, much better to get even."

Zakath narrowed his eyes but couldn't find any trace of threat in the narrow face. Didn't mean it wasn't there though, and he had a feeling there was an insult somewhere in it as well. He fumed silently, but kept, what he hoped to be, bland expression on his face.

Flip.

Smack.

He watched it fly though the air, landing on Silk's outstretched palm, before being flipped over and landing yet again. The noise of the metal hitting the skin seemed unnaturally loud to him. Though maybe that was because it had been such a long time since he had been around such noise. The palaces he kept were quiet, his audience at least demure in conversation, and the longest time that he worked was during the night, hours men and women walked around only rarely. Here, wandering and walking, there was always noise. From the wild animals to conversations, to the steady rustle that the horses made. Yet for the disruptive noise, the coin hitting the skin seemed unnaturally loud.

Flip.

Smack.

"You have to understand Zakath, I wouldn't have cared anything about you, anyone who kills Murgos can't be all bad, until you kidnapped Polgara, along with Durnik and Ce'Nedra and Errand. For Zedar of all people. Torak maybe I could comprehend, but for a disloyal, gutless worm? Foolish of you, to suddenly ally with religion."

"I didn't have much of a choice in the matter," he argued.

Silk raised his eyebrows in a show of disbelief, but went on, "But you didn't harm them, so I could let it slide and you sent a very nice letter to Garion, so it could be forgiven. Besides, I had other things to keep me busy rather than try to bring vengeance against the messenger. But you kept butchering Murgos, even after your hated enemy was dead, by the millions, without any signs of stopping. Not even the Alorian influence would have caused you to stumble, not at your height of victories when Cthol Murgos was at your feet, groveling. Then we found ourselves in your hands. Hands that were, marginally, tied up by politics and fear of Garion, and, of course, recuperating from being poisoned. Hands, though, stained with blood of men and women and children, and ones that I had yet to see feel anything close to remorse."

Zakath felt a slight twinge of irritation. He was not that man. Didn't Silk know that? It was foolish anyway to stay in the past. He was happy in the present, and did not need any remainders of what had happens. After all, he had changed. Hadn't he?

"Do get to the point."

"Still, if nothing else, you were diplomatic and never touched us inappropriately, or crossed any line that could even be thought as offensive. Or at least you didn't, until we came to Mal Zeth and paraded us in front of your people, your court, and your soldiers, keeping us in a gilded prison. Free to do as we wanted, but never to leave."

"It wasn't meant to be a prison," he grated out.

"I would think Garion would beg to differ," Silk voice was very mild.

_Garion._

Garion and he had talked often during the last couple of weeks before the plague had broken out. Both of them had started to lose their tempers by the end, starting to threaten each other all too seriously. Ones, in his heart, he knew he would carry out. Ones, he was just as sure, Garion would hesitate before doing.

His eyes flickered to the young king, riding near the front, deep in conversation with Belgarath. The sun gleamed off his sandy-colored hair, growing long in the wilderness, slouched in his saddle, head drooped a little. His face when it briefly turned to his direction, was somber, with the occasional care-worn look that only now Zakath was beginning to notice and, just beginning, to feel remorseful about. For he knew he had helped in part to make some of those signs of weariness.

He bought his eyes away to the less emotion-stirring ground. It had never been said aloud, but toward the end it had certainly been implied that Garion and his friends were under his control, to do what he wished, when he wished. He had felt nothing but satisfaction out of that knowledge. What an utter ass he had been, an ignorant ass.

Flip.

Smack.

"But we escaped," Zakath had a feeling Silk's dark eyes had missed nothing, either the emotions on his face or the thoughts behind them, but his voice remained mild as he spoke, "and things got rather excited that I could, for awhile, forget your importance. Of course _that_ was rather foolish of me when you had us captured for the second time. Captured this time without any hints of diplomacy and outright proclamations that we going to Mal Zeth with little consequences to our personal desires or needs. In fact you had proclaimed to Garion if he didn't comply, it would be his friends that would suffer the consequences."

Flip.

Smack.

The Drasnian's eyes were very cold, dark-lidded and sharp, and his voice had dropped to a whisper. A whisper that Zakath could easily hear from where he rode. He found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the piercing gaze.

"I was angry," He found himself making excuses when he knew there were none.

"And so was Garion, but he never threatened to torture and kill you. Now did he?"

Well, there had been him swinging the sword around, making sure Rak Hagga would never quite be the same again, and the large implication that Garion and his family could do quite a bit of damage just as easily. But Garion had never, even with anger boiling over in his eyes, an almost wolfish snarl in his voice, and visible blue flickers of light around him, looked like he would torture Zakath. Kill, perhaps, maul, probably, slice into several pieces most definitely, but not the slippery, incendiary tactics of destroying a man's soul and spirit. Tactics Zakath would have done, without a second chance, on one of Garion's companions, his friends, if he thought he could gain another piece of control of him.

He closed his mouth.

"At that point, Zakath, I could have killed you. If you had carried out those threats, I would have, without any qualms, Prophecy be damned. It is one thing to butcher innocent people over a grudge, to kidnap others for a twisted religion, even to withhold a man that is more than your equal from his quest to find his lost son on sheer selfishness, but to threaten to hurt him; to threaten to take away his friends and family and to have a threat hung over him that one false move and his dearest will pay for it in unimaginable ways of anguish, is unforgivable however unlikely that could have happened. Understand, Zakath, Emperor of Boundless Mallorea, self-proclaimed king and god, I do not especially like you, and I do not trust you. Until I think otherwise, I suggest you keep that in mind."

Flip.

The coin disappeared into the folds of his cloak. Silk straightened up. He spoke briskly, "Now, if you have any pain, talk to Polgara. I know she'll help. Whether it would be worth it or not, is up to your judgment."

Zakath watched him move forward. An uncomfortable feeling weighted around his heart. Had he been that ruthless? Yes. Yes, oh definitely yes. Guilt, he now recognized wracked him. But not for the lost dead ones, that one he recognized easily enough for he had felt it's weight for a very long time, but for the pain he had nearly caused, against people who were far more better than him.

"Is there anyway you can trust me again?" he asked to himself, more than the retreating, slightly bent back.

"Be kind, Zakath," Silk said without looking back, "Be kind and don't ever forget. I think you've changed, but you need to remember that you can always go back."

He twisted to face him and Zakath stared deeply into his dark eyes, ones that seemed almost as dark his own. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Durnik, steely-faced next to Toth, both probably had heard every word of the conversation. There was no judgement there, merely patience, waiting to see what Zakath would finally do with his life. He looked away, suddenly aware that he knew, despite all the information gathered and events his spies had witnessed, nothing about these people.

Something fell over him. He caught it automatically. A silver Mallorean coin. He looked at the graven image of himself. A self he had forgotten in his sudden feeling of freedom. He must never forget again. Never forget how ruthless and cruel he had been, how he had far to go in order to make amends for his ruthlessness. Rubbing the coin, he sighed. Sightlessly, he saw once again the pleading face in front of him, begging for mercy. Only if he looked close enough it would be sandy colored instead of black.

Flip.

Smack.


	3. Chapter 3

**Treat with Kindness**

Author's Notes: Set in Enchanter's End Game and somewhat like the first chapter, Zakath is a bit of a bastard in this one. Actually quite a lot, so be wary and be aware that there are some implications that are rather, ah, heartless and/or mature audiences only. On the other hand, Durnik rather strong-minded and pessimestic about things, in general, so one could just see it as paranoia. Really.

Disclaimer: The Belgariad/Mallorean and it's characters/locations do not belong to me. The quote that Durnik mangles also is based on a much better mind that I currently have.

**"You can easily judge the character of others by how they treat those who can do nothing for them or to them." Malcolm Forbes

* * *

**

The light is dim and the tent seems even more gloomier than before.

It is night outside and a tent does not allow fireplaces that always, somehow, manage to brighten the corners of the room in a way candles never do. A dark haired woman, her hair trailing around her remarkable face, stands to one side of a certain tent, away from two sleeping child-like figures, although only one could truly be considered a child, the other almost half-way grown. Pure stubbornness keeps her on her feet, though she is aware, almost uncomfortably, that it is not a steady foundation; that she is terribly, for the first time in such a long time, weak. She dismisses her thoughts. She must not doubt herself, must not show the fear that gnaws deep in her soul, a strong and insidious vine that could easily take control if she gave up even the smallest inch of ground.

The man next to her gives a small, unwanted gasp as she probes her fingers too strongly over his strong jaw. A faint frown on an otherwise calm mien and the briefest darkening of azure eyes show her deeper emotions to his trials while her face is a mask of studied concentration and indifference.

For the most part she is partly annoyed at Durnik for getting hurt in the first place and mostly annoyed at the soldiers for hurting him in such a rough manner that was not entirely called for. There is also something other than irritation, some other deeper emotion that swells up at the sight at the impressively black and blue bruises rising up around his jaw and abdomen. It is an emotion she shies away from because she is afraid of it, because she had it once and lost it, because she doesn't know what it might do to her if she acknowledges it.

"Some rest is the best action, there doesn't seem to be anything broken, eventually the swelling will go down. If we had some ice it would go faster but I don't think there will be any permanent damage," Polgara says at last, wishing just for a little bit more energy to heal the bruises and can't summon even that much of a spark. It makes her feel oddly helpless.

Durnik grunts agreeably as he pulls his tunic on, covering his muscular chest, a benefit from his line of work. His large calloused fingers, a flaw from that same work, skim over the cotton fibers, as if they are trying to imagine something else underneath them before they drop to his side.

Polgara watches the tanned skin disappear dispassionately, "You know, you wouldn't have had any pain if you had just agreed to go with them in the first place."

"You know I couldn't do that Mistress Pol," his voice is professionally mild but there is a catch to it, "Unlike you, I don't put my entire trust in the prophecies. Besides I couldn't just let them take Errand, Ce'Nedra and….and, I mean, just Errand and Ce'Nedra."

She pauses at his slip, as if he was about to say something else but then decided against it.

His eyes are nearly black, but it must be from the little light because she can't think of any other reason why they are nearly obsidian bright. She can't think that there is some other reason for it. She just can't, not with The Battle coming so soon.

He brings up a hand to her face, touching ever so gently that she leans into it slightly without being totally aware of her actions, "You're very pale."

Her legs can't hold her up for much longer and she wants to believe it's just from her weariness. When she speaks, it comes out whispery, "I need…to rest, for a while."

Understanding is in his eyes. Reluctantly it seems to her, though that might just be her fatigued imagination, he brings his hand away, "I think we both need to sleep."

"Just remember to take the medicine and don't do anything strenuous for a while until the bruises heal completely," she scolds as she turns to the bed, missing the indulgent smile on his face.

When she turns back, he looks earnestly at her, the fairly silly grin on his face wiped clean, "I will."

His reward is one of the most beautiful sites in the world, in his humble opinion of course. Polgara, the Sorceress, the daughter of Belgarath, beloved of the god Aldur, smiles. Her eyes, an almost dark maroon color make her entire face light up from within. A slight shine of white teeth can be seen peeking from soft, smiling lips, making her look young and innocent. She is beautiful. And it's not just her smile, but the way she is looking at him while she is doing at, as if it is a personal gift only to him. A thought he holds on to, no matter how false it might be. It is not just because she is physically flawless, but there is something in her smile, in her bright eyes, in the light that is around her entire body. Something great and terrible that makes his heart squeeze and the world tremble and he can't breathe. Then the smile wavers into an exhausted frown. The dark rings around her eyes seem even worse than a few minutes ago, and there are lines where there shouldn't, a weariness that weighs her entire body down that no one deserves to shoulder.

She curls into the cot that awaits her, though collapses is a better word, hugging herself into a tight ball. Almost instantly, her breath slows and becomes deeper. She has fallen asleep.

Durnik turns away abruptly, making his own way to his bed. He ought to figure out a way to escape, or some plan to keep them all safe. That is what he plans on doing as he crawls into his pallet, the child Errand only a few feet away, Ce'Nedra's copper curls near Polgara. But as he drifts to sleep, almost against his will, Polgara's beautiful smile is locked in his mind, playing over and over again.

* * *

A soft throat clearing brings his thoughts into consciousness and a loud voice asking for his attention jerks it away from dreamland. The tent is practically pitch-black but someone is caring a lantern that brightens the shadows around him. He quickly moves up, "Is something wrong? Are we moving?" 

The Mallorean soldier closest to his feet responds with another loud throat clearing, "Goodman Durnik, the Emperor, Kal 'Zakath, requests your presence for some conversation."

He mispronounces his name and his accent confuses the message, but Durnik understands the gist of it quickly enough. He frowns, "Can you tell the Emperor that I refuse his request? It's the middle of night and some people would like to sleep."

"Kal 'Zakath would be highly disappointed."

Durnik wants to say just what the Emperor 'Zakath could do with his disappointment but then a second soldier moved over to peer at Errand's curled form. The retort dies on his lips as reality, along with certain facts, reasserted themselves in his mind. If he was by himself, he would have fought the soldiers and done everything in his power to make their lives miserable. But he is not by himself. There are others around him that he needed to put first, who would suffer if he tried to a noble martyr. Dear companions who could be easily, horribly hurt. He refuses to think specifically of the smile that still plays on his mind.

"Give me a moment to get dressed."

He feels grumpy and short-tempered when he appears in front of 'Zakath. While a part of him is impressed with the cordialness of his soldiers and the elegance of 'Zakath's pavilion, as impressive as the first time he laid eyes on it, he is too worried to care. 'Zakath has a reason to talk to him. A reason Durnik thought about as he dressed and most of the reasons he could think of were not cheering in the slightest.

The soldiers around him bow as they come into the Emperor's presence. Durnik follows jerkily.

He does not like royalty, does not feel comfortable around them. All that wealth and power and attitude that those of high, "noble" birth contain set him on edge, uncertain of his own status, of his own self-worth. He tries not to think about a pair of bright blue eyes and dark, dark hair and what he represents to her.

"Ah, Goodman, I'm glad you decided to come," 'Zakath greets him, "Please sit. The rest of you, leave us for the moment."

Durnik sits in one of the inlaid chairs, delightfully comfortable and cushy. It is, he would guess if he had a desire to think so, supposed to set him on ease. Instead it makes him feel worse. All this elegance, this beauty and comfort, reminds him that he did not grow up in this sort of atmosphere, around these sorts of things.

He refuses, though, to play the game of intimidation. He will not be ashamed of what he is. An honest blacksmith and that was not something he would ever be ashamed of.

'Zakath is looking at him with his usual dead expression, as if something in him is broken, "Would you like something to eat or drink?"

"No, thank you. I'm not thirsty."

"I have a nice red wine."

"It's rather late."

He appears to be surprised by that observation, "Why, yes. I suppose it is. I had forgotten."

Durnik can't resist raising his eyebrows but he refrains from commenting, barely, "May I ask why you got me out of my bed?"

"Can't an emperor ask a guest his company any time?"

"This hardly," he thinks about his choice of his words and decides to throw caution to the wind, "a decent hour for men to keep."

"Are you calling me indecent?" there is amusement in 'Zakath's voice, though his eyes barely flicker.

'And if I am?' he wants to say. He wants to go up to the Emperor and demand, _demand,_ that his friends be set free. There is even a small part that wants to punch him in the face to show he felt about the situation, about being trapped and caught, about Polgara looking half-dead, about a whole mess that he should have considered. What he does, instead because his good manners rule him over everything else, is give a tight grin back, "You do have to agree that is rather late even under polite circumstances."

"I don't usually notice," the amusement in his tone grows.

Durnik resists, again, the temptation to smack him in the face.

The Emperor looks like he is about to retort, something biting, cold and calculating. It is clearly on the tip of his tongue to say something that 'Zakath knows will put Durnik in his place. Something unkind about servants and their betters.

A servant suddenly appears in the corner of the Emperor' eye before he can use his cutting reply, bring about a quick demoralizing strike. He turns to stare at the servant, a very young Dalasian, the threat of death upon his lips. He does not like interruptions.

Durnik follows the gaze to an uncertain, fearful servant.

The servant's slanted brown eyes dart from Durnik to 'Zakath, back and forth, as he speaks, "Your general has found a prisoner your Majesty. He's a Murgo."

"Bring him in."

He gulps visibly, his prominent Adam's apple bobs. Durnik starts feeling uneasy, wondering if he had been set up for something, but the servant appears too nervous. He looks young, as young as Garion. Something stabs in his heart thinking about Garion and he tries to suppress it, concentrating on the servant's hands as they clench and unclench in nervousness. Dancer's hands, fragile and slender, not yet seen a day's hard work. Elegant hands for gentleman. Not like his hands, rough and worn from smithing, metal is unforgiving. Not like the Emperor's hands, carefully manicured and clean, carefully inspected and tended by servants, gentleman's hands.

"As you wish sire," he bows and scrapes, almost licking the floor, before leaving.

Neither Durnik nor 'Zakath continue their conversation, keeping to their own thoughts, until the soldiers can be heard. Their armor clinks and clanks as they move closer to the tent. It makes Durnik wince a little, making him jar his teeth. His jaw aches as the noise gets louder, although it might just be his eardrums.

He looks darkly at the column of Malloreans, wondering if they were ones that hit him. Their faces don't look familiar, dark-haired and lean, but he doesn't have a clear memory of what those that hit him looked like in the first place.

They make a five star form, on in front, two to the side of the prisoner and two in back of him. They tower over the prisoner in the middle, close enough to thwart a good look at his face. Durnik can only see small feet in worn sandals.

"Kal 'Zakath," the leading officer rumbles in his accented voice, "we found this soldier trying to get through the lines."

Surreptitiously, he catches 'Zakath's expression shift briefly, the first sign of emotion he had shown since he had been bought in front of him. It is not a comforting facial change.

The officer moves aside to reveal the prisoner.

Durnik is captivated by the sight before him. He is a bedraggled looking youth, dirty and bloody. His dark hair is unkempt, and, for a Murgo, he looks scrawny and under-fed. The clothes that hang on him are tattered, frayed around the edges as if they had been sewed once too often, an occasional odd-colored thread appearing next to the dusty gray of his tunic and rust-colored pants far too short for him.

He is also very young. The scars on his face are barely scabbed over; they seem to flare in the light painfully. Whatever arrogance that seemed to be inbred in all Murgos has dissipated into a sort of pathetic sullenness that is almost as frayed as his clothes. Durnik is strongly reminded of Garion at that age, when they had been wandering around searching for the Orb, when their lives had taken a sudden drop out of normalcy. For at that age, he had been sullen and uncertain of his place in life, caught in a position where he was overwhelmed by a power he had not understanding, could not control. It was the time when Durnik was just beginning to realize how far he had traveled and how high those he was traveling witgh.

"Well, Murgo? What shall we do with you?" 'Zakath speaks softly, as if they are having a pleasant conversation over what wine they should drink at dinner. But even Durnik, in his short time in his Majesty's presence, knows that there is a threat of the unspeakable in his mild, disturbing mild, tones.

The Murgo, the boy really, zooms in at him sharply. Everyone in the tent can see him gulp visibly, as realization sets in and he begins to tremble. He manages to control himself but only by the barest of margins, as he instantly lowers his eyes, clenching his manacled hands that shook hard enough to cause the metal to rattle.

"Tell me, Murgo. Do you know what the penalty is for a Mallorean to find a Murgo wandering around the Emperor's tents?" he pauses, "It is death."

The boy jerks at that, staring frozenly at him. His brown eyes widen almost comically. Durnik does not laugh.

"The question is, what should I do with you?" ''Zakath muses, "I could crucify you, but there aren't any trees nearby. I could have you beheaded but that always leaves too much blood on the floor and stains in the carpet. Perhaps I can just have you whipped down to the very inch of your life then toss you to your savage king, so that he might give you his blessing before death and into the afterlife. Which one would you like?"

The boy darts his eyes around, seeking an escape. Whatever courage that had managed to keep him standing has left him by the cold implacability of his fate and he struggles uselessly in the iron grip of the soldiers on his arms, muttering something under his breath. It could be prayer or a plea, or he could just be begging for mercy.

It makes Durnik sick in his stomach.

"Ah but you still like to live, don't you? Still believe in the hope that life brings, that in the end I will be bought to justice for the cruelty you have suffered," ''Zakath's smile is quite cold, "you're wrong. There will be no sentencing for me, only you, and in the end, everyone dies, now or later. And by the time I die, you'll have been a rotten corpse that will now longer care if I have died well or painfully. There is no justice in the world, only power and its high time you were taught that."

The boy quivers beneath his words and his harsh view of reality, close to breaking down into tears.

"I am going to leave," Durnik says suddenly, rudely.

He hasn't the desire, or the heart (and quite frankly, he knows he'd fight even when he's too sore and too limited to do anything more than make a fuss) to see atrocities happen before his eyes just for the Emperor's pleasure. He will not watch a boy break in front of his eyes. He refuses to watch helplessly. It is not good manners, any part of what's before him.

"I have not asked you to be dismissed, Goodman."

Two of the guards shift over to him but he doesn't move another step. The same whispery mildness is back, the ice disappearing into blandness. It sends shivers down his spine. He turns around abruptly, knowing this is a game. A game he finds sickening. "I refuse to stay here and watch you amuse yourself with this child, your Majesty. It's indecent."

"This is twice now you have called me indecent in a roundabout way, Goodman," he seems to consider, "perhaps you should be the one who gets to decide this Murgo's fate instead."

Durnik stares at him, unable to comprehend the burden that has been placed on him.

'Zakath grins at him that has no amusement in it, "Certainly a decent man like yourself can choose the cleanest death, for all Murgos found by Malloreans have to die. It is war after all."

Durnik looks at the boy, silent but close to bursting. He is looking back and forth between them, not sure of the game going on before, only knowing his small and meaningless life is on the line. It makes him sad rather then angry at the boy's ignorance.

"Certainly you will not show mercy to a Murgo. All people in the West hate Murgos, especially those closest to the Alorns. Was it not the Murgos that hurt you and your friends? When they hunted you down like animals? What right do they have to be treated as human beings when they don't even treat others as humans? There is not a decent one among them and you know it. You know there is nothing good about them, nothing that can be redeemed. What should one more death be one your hands?"

'Zakath's quiet voice made its way insidiously into his brain. He struggles against the dark thoughts, the obvious stank of bitterness and anger, trying to rise above it. He searches for some way to get out of the choice before him, to leave before someone is irretrievably harmed, not just himself but for the boy as well. Polgara would never be able to look at him again, knowing he had caused the death of a child. Even if it was a Murgo. Even if it was part of a race of men he had killed, watched die in horrible ways, killed with his own hands knowing they would kill him in return.

This sullen, shivering thing before him, though, is barely a Murgo, barely a man. Even if he was a man, Durnik can not judge a man's fate. Not in front of 'Zakath anyway. May the Gods forgive him for his choice.

"I do not want him to die. He is the same age of a young man I know, one very close to me and maybe he is a Murgo and has killed many people, some of my own relatives even, or will go on to kill them, but I can not be the judge of that. I am no god to say future actions dictate a person's death."

"I see," 'Zakath looks at him with enigmatic eyes, dark and gloomy, "Captain Belare, take the prisoner to the soldier's tents for imprisonment, there might be a ransom for him. If none comes, put him to work."

"Yes your Majesty."

They drag him away. The boy looks back. Durik wonders if in the end, death would have been a kinder fate than slavery, but he closes his mind to any further thought on the matter. He lets out a breath he did not he had been holding, half-wondering if 'Zakath was going to go back on his word until the child had completely left his sight.

"I presume you were talking about Belgarion when you meant a young man. Is he truly that young?" 'Zakath questions as if they had not been interrupted.

Durnik is learning, painfully, but learning all the same about how the Emperor of Boundless Mallorea thinks. He allows himself to be distracted by the query.

Garion. He is reminded of Garion, something he had been trying hard not think about, trying not to think about the danger the boy who asked inquisitive questions, moving toward the forge a little too closely. But the Murgo, this whole conversation, has bought it all back.

"Tell me what is he like?"

So quiet is the Mallorean's voice, so easy is the question. What is he to say? Garion is sandy-haired almost man with a dark-haired guardian, not his mother or close relative, but with an expression on her face that would put the love of any mother to shame. It hurts him somewhere inside that he will never see that gentle smile, he can't have it, he doesn't deserve it.

'Zakath takes his silence as fear or sullenness, it doesn't matter which, and impatience creeps into his voice, "Well? You've declared yourself to be impulsive and blunt enough, what can you say about Belgarion, Overlord of the West? Certainly you can say something about him after all this time."

"He is a young man, and will grow-might grow up into a good man," if he grows up, if he survives Torak, if survives fighting against a God, "he's brash but he's got a good heart and good manners too."

'Zakath lowers his eyebrows at the obvious snub, "Do you think he will live?"

Durnik can't resist flinching at his tone. Since he had heard about the note, a note that even made him afraid of Polgara's temper, and understood the relevance, he has tried to remain optimistic. Truly he had tried, or at least striven not to think about the fact that Garion was going to fight someone invulnerable, invincible, a god.

"I have to believe he will."

"But do you honestly think he will? He is going up against a god after all?" 'Zakath does not wait for a reply before continuing, "All my Grolims have assured me that it is impossible for a young man, practically a child like the sniveling coward before us earlier, to defeat Kal Torak."

"What would you like me to respond to that? That I want to see my closest friend die, slowly and painfully, only because he was destined to fight in an impossible task? To hell with your Grolims," he sputters out and then quickly looks down. He didn't quite mean to go that far and was surprised at the anger _that_ question aroused.

'Zakath does not take obvious offense. He does not care either way about Grolims, they are power hungry men, just like all men. Grolims, despite their mysticism, he understands, just like he understands his soldiers and his court of fools that dance and pretend to be important with their gowns and frippery.

The fire from the candles flicker in his dark orbs that are his eyes for a moment, the only thing that is bright in his soul and body.

"I see. Tell me about yourself Goodman."

"I'm a blacksmith," he responds after a moment, trying to search for any hidden reason behind the sudden change in conversation. Not that it's likely he would find it. "Or, at least, I was."

"Was?"

"I do whatever Lady Polgara asks me to do."

"I see."

Durnik highly doubts that.

The silence fills up the room as 'Zakath ponders the information. Durnik could fill it, but he really doesn't want to. What he wants it to be away from this man who hid his insanity in a cloak of civility, wearing a mantle of ice and indifference that bothered him far more than any brutality 'Zakath has shown.

"You have traveled with her for a very long time, haven't you?"

"Aye."

"She's quite a character isn't she?"

Something inside Durnik is screaming at his tone, on what exactly he means to say, and he can't seem to get it to shut up. He is afraid and angry and mixed up. And 'Zakath keeps looking at him with dead eyes that don't understand anything he is going through, not in the vaguest sense because he doesn't even know what's going on. And the boy's terrified eyes keep playing in front of him, a constant remainder and now they're talking about Polgara after Garion. This game is too complicated and he feels that he has failed thrice over.

"What do you want _your Majesty_? You woke me in the middle of the night to talk about Lady Polgara. Fine, I don't care. She is the most magnificent, beautiful, powerful and frightening person you will ever meet. Happy? Have I amused you enough by my honest and decent reactions to what has happened today?"

'Zakath says as he pauses for a deep breath, "Are all men like you?"

"Eh?"

"All men, all commoners," he waves his hand, "like you. Blunt and without any care that I could probably kill you in less than a heartbeat."

"I'm not worried about my death."

There is a sudden heavy silence in the room that makes Durnik almost wish to leave. Almost wish him to fill it up with something. But he, damn the seven gods and the Prophecies, has some pride left. Not a great deal, but enough not to back break eye-contact with the man in front of him, not to fill the silence with pointless words and not move to show his uneasiness.

It is 'Zakath who finally breaks the impasse, "Is that what you're worried about?"

He has a sudden desire to have some of that wine 'Zakath had offered earlier, something to swallow down his growing fear that makes his throat dry, his heart pump at the familiar mildness. "Should I not? We came here under…unusual circumstances and well-,"

"And there are two beautiful women and a boy feminine enough to be overlooked as being male, captured by a savage group of soldiers that could easily use these "unusual circumstances" to their advantage."

"Perhaps not so bluntly," he says after a pause.

"I don't suppose there is anything I can do or say that would make you feel any better?"

"No."

The Emperor blinks, clearly taken aback by his blunt answer.

Durnik doesn't regret it, not after the Murgo incident, not after having to deal with being reminded of Garion's imperilment, of his own inadequacy. He leans into the Emperor's face, on the edge of fine seat that someone better would have enjoyed, "And if you were in my shoes, you wouldn't either. Don't you dare try to reassure me. My loved ones are in danger and nothing you say will make me feel any better."

"I see," his eyes reflect something almost uncertain then they gleam almost brightly, "You know, it is always in an Emperor's best interest to be polite to prisoners."

"Prisoners," he tastes the word and finds it foul, "we are prisoners more than anything else, aren't we?"

"Pawns," 'Zakath corrects, "more pawns than prisoners if you must know."

"Perhaps," Durnik rises, "If you'll excuse me, your Majesty. It is getting late and I should get some rest. Unless there is something else you would like to me about? Anything at all, just ask and I shall try to be as blunt and _common_ as possible."

"Later, perhaps. You are dismissed," he waves his hand magnanimously.

Durnik does not wait a second before he is up and leaving.

'Zakath gives one last repartee as he opens the tent flap, "I will be asking Ce'Nedra to talk to me. I find the conversations with commoners a trifle to blunt for me to be able to handle at such dark hours."

It is a dig at Durnik. If he had been a lesser man, he would have turned around and socked him in the face. Something he had wanted to do since he had woken up in the middle of this dreadful night. His body already reacts to the hidden taunt, tensing up and automatically straightening his shoulder. With a great deal of patience, he lets out his breath and relaxes those muscles that know how to deal with bullies as intimately as they know how to deal with metal, "There is a saying in Sendaria, your Majesty. You can know a great deal about a man by what he does, not to his friends, but to his enemies."

He turns to him, eying the dark-haired man. Yes, he is a commoner, a simple blacksmith, and hopeless fool in love with the most impossible, unreachable figure but he is unwilling to bend or break because of what he is.

'Zakath looks at him and feels a tremor of something and can't describe it exactly. There is something in his eyes, something bright and gleaming _almost familiar _in his brown orbs. He stands unbroken, unbent.

'Zakath knows he is in love, in love in a position even worse than himself. At least he had her once, a long time ago. Unlike the Goodman who continues to look upon the face of his beloved and, like the stars, be unable to touch her. If he had any pity left in him, he would pity the Goodman. But like most of his other emotions, they have been frozen like the rest of his soul. There are no cracks in his armored soul and he will allow no one to touch it.

"So it is said in Sendaria. Good night Goodman."

"Goodnight, your Majesty."

* * *

Polgara comes to his side instantly when he returns to the tent he shared with her and Errand and Ce'Nedra. How she knew he was gone and when he had come back, he felt it best not to ask and does not. They hold each other briefly, almost acknowledging something that has been in front of them for such a long time. Then Polgara slips away, "Are you all right?" 

She still looks too fragile, though she must have gotten some sleep for the circles had faded slightly. Durnik wants to touch her, have something that will take this unclean feeling away from him, "I just talked with ''Zakath. He has requested Ce'Nedra's audience for the rest of our imprisonment."

Her eyes darken to a steely gray, "I will not allow-,"

"It's alright. She won't be hurt," at what price he still can not say.

She looks at him, searching for something. True she is no mind reader, finding the nuances of people's thoughts is not quite in her grasp, though it is not too far above a step she could do. She resists the urge to see what troubles his mind, makes him furrow his brow, and slump his shoulders from a weight she can not see.

"You need to rest," she says at last, unable to say more without more knowledge. Open up to me, she pleads and does not want him to. For she would have to do the same in turn and she can't, not yet. Not while the shadow of a dark beau hangs in the air, the unwanted attentions of a god that she might marry to.

"As do you," he does not hear her inner pleas. He sighs instead and touches his temple as if a headache was building up there, "I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

She shuffles to her own cot, feeling much wearier than before. Yet she can not help but remember the cozy embrace she had been in, the strong arms wrapped around for just a minute. Maybe, just maybe, she could imagine those arms around her for just a little longer as she drifts into slumber.

* * *

Next: two sorcereres compare nightmares. 


End file.
